


to dream, to fly

by themorninglark



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Guang Hong character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 22:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11976045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/themorninglark
Summary: Guang Hong has never seen the ocean before. The sky is the biggest thing he knows, and so he looks up, looks up into the smog-grey beyond and tries to imagine sailing past all those clouds. He has a new pair of skates for this trip. They are red, like the poppies in the fields where Ying-jieused to let him run free, chase the crickets all over the meadow before the sun set. He chose these skates himself.Then his coach comes over and says,Guang Hong, it’s time, and he goes, and does not look back.





	to dream, to fly

**Author's Note:**

> This is my love letter to a boy who's a whole lot more than his cute exterior. I hope you enjoy it :)

He’s flat on the ice, and there’s a bruise on his elbow that explodes like a firecracker.

As he blinks his eyes open, a tangle of legs and swiftly moving blades blurs into focus. It is so very crowded at the rink. He thinks he hears someone calling his name, but the voice is distant. All the breath has been knocked out of him.

Guang Hong tilts his head and strains to reach for the railing. He holds the throbbing pain in still, bites down stubborn on his bottom lip and gets up by himself, for he is not the kind of boy who cries when he falls, and it is not his first encounter with cuts and scrapes.

 

* * *

 

_Where is Canada?_

_Far away_ , says his mother, kneeling before him. She zips up his jacket, kisses him on the forehead, and holds his face in her hands. _Across the ocean._

_Is the ocean big?_

_Very big._

Guang Hong has never seen the ocean before. The sky is the biggest thing he knows, and so he looks up, looks up into the smog-grey beyond and tries to imagine sailing past all those clouds. He has a new pair of skates for this trip. They are red, like the poppies in the fields where Ying- _jie_ used to let him run free, chase the crickets all over the meadow before the sun set. He chose these skates himself.

Then his coach comes over and says, _Guang Hong, it’s time,_ and he goes, and does not look back.

The blanket on the plane is scratchy, but he has a window seat and there is room enough, just, for him to curl up tight. He drifts off into fitful sleep soon after the roar of takeoff fades.

When he wakes, they are over the Pacific, and it is in between the ocean and the sky that Guang Hong first sees a hundred different shades of blue. This is what the ice melts to become. He hugs his backpack into his lap, thinks of the teddy bear he left behind on purpose now that he is _big_ —or, at least, _bigger_ —and dreams, vivid.

 

* * *

 

“And then,” he says, breathless, as he twirls out of a wobbly upright spin, “this is the part where I disappear into the sea.”

Leo de la Iglesia, sprawled on his back in the grass, grins up at him and applauds. Guang Hong executes a tidy little bow before flopping down as well.

They have stolen away to a park two blocks down from the rink, on the pretext of getting lemonade and exploring the neighbourhood. It's been ten minutes since they finished said lemonade. Any moment now, their coaches will come tearing down the street to drag them back, but _for now_ , they can pretend they are normal teenagers, slacking off for an afternoon.

Guang Hong is all sweaty and gross. His cheeks are flushed, or maybe, ever so slightly sunburnt. His porcelain-fair skin is unused to the heat this side of America. He could swear he’s grown ten more freckles every time he looks into the mirror.

“Like _The Little Mermaid_ ,” says Leo. “Do you turn into seafoam, too?”

“Is _that_ how that story ends?”

“Yeah. I always thought it was really sad.”

“Then I won’t turn into seafoam,” Guang Hong decides, earnest. “I’ll disappear. And I’ll come back. Like a sea spirit.”

He likes the sound of that, even if he does not _feel_ so much like a sea spirit when he skates.

Leo laughs. “My free skate is going to be so boring compared to yours. Your coach did great on this choreography.”

“But you did your own. That’s _so_ much cooler. And you always have the best music.”

“Can’t skate unless the music makes me feel like dancing,” says Leo cheerfully, as he peels himself off the grass up to sitting. He leans back on his hands, legs outstretched. Guang Hong can see his fingers tapping absently, a rhythm that sings the searing summer wind like a joyous hymn. There’s barely a hint of a breeze right here, right now, but if he closes his eyes, he can picture it bright and clear: the ice, the chill and the blinding reflection. The jaunty beat of the music, coming alive with Leo’s step sequence.

 _Will I be able to skate like that in two years?_ Guang Hong wonders, daring to hope.

 

* * *

 

His first junior Worlds is a blur. He does not remember much of what happened on the ice, afterward. What he remembers is taking a bow, collecting his first teddy bear of many, and the pat on the back that Coach You gives him. What he remembers is Leo’s hurried hug as they pass each other in the corridor, and the radiant grin on Phichit’s face.

“You did great, Guang Hong!”

“Thanks,” says Guang Hong. He’s still catching his breath, and he can feel his lower lip jut out, just a little petulant. “I don’t think I’ll place.”

Phichit, to his credit, does not offer him a platitude like _it is your Worlds debut, after all_ , does not say that no one was expecting Guang Hong to place, even though it’s the truth. _Almost_ the truth. Phichit gives him a heartfelt squeeze on his shoulder, and Guang Hong knows he understands; they are all here because they _want_ to place, because they believe they can, and it is a disappointment to themselves most of all when they do not.

Guang Hong gathers his courage, clenches a fist close to his chest in determination. “Maybe next year.”

“Next year, huh…” Phichit echoes, turning back to the TV.

Leo is out there in a costume of gold and satin, the lights warm at his back, and the crowd is clapping along to the music. Leo always chooses the best music. There’s a triple flip coming up, one that Leo’s been working hard on all season, and Guang Hong’s breath catches in his throat. In this moment, summer feels like a lifetime ago.

“I won’t be here with you next year,” says Phichit.

“Ah!” Guang Hong gasps. “You’re moving up to seniors?”

Phichit nods. He’s beaming, now, and his eyes are bright as he meets Guang Hong’s gaze. He is proud. Guang Hong is proud of him too.

“Yuuri’s been waiting too long for me,” he laughs.

 _I’ll miss you,_ Guang Hong wants to say, but that’s not quite it. He _will_ miss Phichit, of course. It’s more than that, though, the feeling swelling in his chest; it’s an impatience that flares, blooms like poppies, longs to shout to the world, _my turn, my turn soon_.

There’s a loud cheer from the TV, faint echoes drifting in from outside, and Guang Hong claps his hands together in delight as Phichit lets out a soft whoop, for Leo’s landed his triple flip and it’s cleanly, beautifully done.

 

* * *

 

SNS is one of the greatest discoveries of Guang Hong’s life. When Leo shows him one of Phichit’s Instagram photos from Bangkok, Guang Hong grabs the phone from him and stares at it in awe. The colours are a vivid splash across the screen. He can almost smell the dust and the street food, sweet and spicy and greasy on every corner; he can hear the shouts from the crowd, the horns of traffic. It reminds him of Beijing.

He isn’t _homesick_ , not exactly. Beijing isn’t even his hometown. The thing is, he has learned to make a home in LA, in Montreal, in whichever rink and homestay and hotel he finds himself in, on any given day. He has had to learn this, and he does not regret any of it, but—

Guang Hong isn’t homesick. He does not get homesick. Just, sometimes, cravings for _jianbing_.

He makes his first account on the spot, and his first profile picture is a selfie he snaps with Leo, with terrible lighting reflecting off the rink and unprepared smiles. It takes him a few weeks and sweaty palms and several texts from Phichit egging him on before he works up the courage to follow Katsuki Yuuri, and Victor Nikiforov—that’s another level altogether.

Looking through photos from Detroit, from Moscow, from Tokyo, Guang Hong’s always struck breathless by how very big the world is. He has such a long way to go, and so much to see.

 

* * *

 

When Guang Hong dreams, he does not dream of the ice.

He knows the other skaters do, sometimes. He knows Leo has skating on his mind, when they’re walking down the street and he breaks into a hum, a little step-twirl that takes them all the way to the ice cream parlour. He read an interview with Victor Nikiforov once, where he spoke of choreography coming to him in fits of idle fancy, when he’s staring out of plane windows, when he finds himself drifting off in the middle of long bubble baths.

Guang Hong’s own fits of idle fancy, for what they’re worth, are marvellously banal—will he have _waffles_ or _pancakes_ at the breakfast buffet tomorrow?—unless he’s been left alone too long to daydream.

Leo likes to tease him about trashy American gangster movies ruining his innocent imagination. Guang Hong likes to bristle at the _innocent_ part.

As he spins another story in his head, thinks of his free skate and runs through motions again and again, he takes in his reflection in the mirror. Today, he is clothed in royal red with sleeves of chiffon. They trail like clouds from his wrists. No sequins on this costume, the better to watch him skate. His assistant coach is brushing his hair, and Guang Hong remembers his mother and Ying- _jie_ doing this when he was a child. The steady strokes, sure fingers massaging his scalp, the scent of mandarin and sandalwood filling the room.

“You don’t need blush,” she says, smiling. “You’ve got such naturally rosy cheeks. Lucky child.”

“Am I lucky?” Guang Hong asks, quietly.

His assistant coach pats him on the cheek. “You’re going to be the hero of China, Guang Hong.”

It is a strange mantle to wear. Guang Hong doesn’t think of himself as anything like a hero. Most days, it is all he can do to hold on gracefully to a handful of strong, silken memories, and put one foot in front of the other, keep gliding, gliding forward.

 

* * *

 

The next time he’s home for the off-season, Guang Hong helps Ying- _jie_ shred the cabbage for dinner.

It is quiet in his house. He never used to think that before, but hotel rooms are small and the walls are thin. There are always people in the corridor, in the lobby, and at the rink, there are camera crews and TVs and music and other skaters warming up behind the stands. Now, it is just him and his old nanny in the kitchen, and it takes Guang Hong a minute to remember how this goes.

He used to stand on a stool to help with the cooking, because he was too small to reach the tabletop. Ying- _jie_ would sneak him pieces of candied orange peel to snack on. Now, he is standing next to that stool and Ying- _jie_ is sitting on it, grinding spices with a mortar and pestle.

Her hair is pulled back in a tidy bun. She has strands of grey in places Guang Hong never noticed before, gentle lines at the corners of her eyes. _Has it been so long,_ Guang Hong thinks, since he last came home?

As if Ying- _jie_ ’s reading his mind, she looks up and smiles.

“I’ve been helping to look after the Tangs’ girl, since you’re away so much now,” she says.

Guang Hong’s mouth falls open. “Uncle and Auntie Tang had _another_ girl?”

“No, no.” Ying- _jie_ laughs. “Yu Ling got married. And her baby is healthy, thank the gods. Keeps us all up at night with her crying!”

Guang Hong remembers Yu Ling. She is a few years older than him, and they used to play hide and seek together all up and down the streets, as neighbours did. He tries to picture the girl with the grubby ponytail and perpetually charcoal-smudged hands, grown up, a mother. It is a world so far removed from his own now that he cannot imagine it, and all he feels is a strange pang, a wistful sort of wonder at the fork in the road he took.

“I’m making my senior debut next season, Ying- _jie_.”

Guang Hong blushes slightly as he says it, looking straight down into his pile of cabbage. He supposes it is not a very grown up thing, compared to having a baby. But he has poured everything he has into this, and it is what he wants most of all in the world.

Ying- _jie_ stands up, sets the mortar and pestle on the counter and ruffles his hair.

“You know, the whole town comes over to watch you on TV when you skate,” she says, her voice full of pride, and Guang Hong is a wide-eyed boy again, just for that moment.

 

* * *

 

He’s flat on the ice, and this time it’s gunfire exploding in his mind.

The music soars to its dramatic finale. There’s a roaring in his ears, and it’s not all from the audience; it is the blood in his veins and the pounding beat in his chest, the fog of his rough exhales. It is for this that he has suffered all these bruises, torn up his feet with cuts and scratches and calluses that will never mend prettily. Just like that, it is all over, for now.

Guang Hong tilts his head and gets up by himself, for he is not the kind of man who would die in a ditch here. He never asked to be the hero of China. But if he can be the hero of his own story, that’s enough.

His heart is a bullet wound that blooms, heals warm and open, as he stands to face the crowd.


End file.
